


How A Resurrection Really Feels

by fennecfawkes



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Domestic Avengers, Excessive Banter, F/M, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Slow Build, Team Dynamics, Unrepentant Fluff, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-10-08
Packaged: 2018-02-18 01:25:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 11,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2330159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fennecfawkes/pseuds/fennecfawkes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the Avengers make poor amateur therapists, Clint Barton's got a pretty good head on his shoulders, and the Bus houses two snipers, however briefly.</p><p>Title borrowed from the Hold Steady, characters borrowed from Marvel. Chapters of varying length, mostly on the short side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The thing is, Clint Barton doesn’t really do grief.

He’s always been attracted to—or stuck in, he supposes—situations that encourage death. A broken-ish home. Orphanages. The circus. The surprisingly welcoming world of mercenaries. SHIELD. And now, professional superhero-ing.

OK, maybe that last one didn’t encourage death so much as prevent the deaths of others. But as in so many situations, Phil Coulson had to go and be the exception. And was it a big deal? Sure, of course. He and Phil were friends. Good friends, even. They’d worked together too much for Clint to think of him as any less, and Clint was too good at keeping his emotions in check to make it anything more. So when the battle was done and the shwarma consumed and Nat told him Phil didn’t make it, he swallowed hard and nodded and asked if she was planning on moving into Stark Tower, as Stark had suggested. She looked at him only a second too long before saying she was considering it, and then they went about their business, and no one was the wiser.

That didn’t last long.

Clint likes the others. Really, he does. Thor’s hilarious, and he could debate the relative merits of blueberry versus s’mores Pop Tarts all day with the guy. Steve’s “Aw, shucks, me?” thing isn’t an act, as Clint initially suspected, and it’s actually kind of endearing, in its own way. Stark goes out of his way to accommodate everyone’s hyper-specific needs, from Clint’s love for roomy ventilation systems to Bruce’s demand for symmetry in his houseplants, and it seems to make him happy to help, so Clint allows it. Bruce keeps to himself, which is fine, because Clint does that sometimes, too, and whenever they’re on opposite ends of the couch, reading, it’s a peaceful, companionable kind of silence. And, of course, there’s Nat, his oldest friend. So he likes Tower living, as a rule. It’s all very domestic, the way they seem to float about the city and always end up back home for movie nights and the occasional fundraiser. It’s like that, at least, for a few months, before everyone else seems to decide they’re close enough to Clint to delve deep into his psyche.


	2. Chapter 2

He’s had mandatory appointments with a SHIELD psychologist three times a week since the whole mind control episode. And they’re fine. Surprisingly fine. Dr. Gossett is a no-bullshit type, not wasting time talking about how Clint _feels_ , just about how he _felt_ and how he _thinks_ and _does_ now that he’s back in his own head. Clint likes that, and it just feels like Steve’s being polite when, in October, he asks how the appointments are going.

“Good,” says Clint, looking up from his journal. Dr. Gossett has him keep notes of his daily schedule. He doesn’t have to write what he thinks about what he has to do, just what he’s doing, and he’s not sure if that’s meant to bolster his self awareness or what, but he doesn’t really care, it’s an easy enough assignment. “Gossett’s great. Did they give you a shrink when you came back?”

Steve nods. “Doescher. She’s great. Haven’t seen her in a while, though.” Steve hesitates, then says, “You know, Clint, if you ever wanted to talk about anything—maybe things you didn’t want to tell Dr. Gossett—I’m here. I know Natasha’s there for you, but it isn’t just her. It’s all of us, really. And—well. I may understand better than you’d expect.”

“What—OK,” says Clint, scrambling for the proper response. “I’ll—you want to talk to me about my feelings, Cap?”

Steve’s face reddens slightly. “If that’s what you need. Feelings, desires, stuff you’ve been bottling up—I’m here. OK?”

Clint nods. “Yeah, OK,” he says faintly. “I’m going to finish this now.” He looks at Steve, hoping that’s enough prompting for him to leave and quit talking about—if Clint’s reading this correctly—his unrequited love for that other guy they featured in the Smithsonian exhibit. It is, it seems, and Steve’s out of the room off to God knows where before Clint’s even put pencil back to paper.


	3. Chapter 3

“I had a cat when I was little.” Stark—Tony, Clint’s still having trouble calling him Tony, but he thinks Tony would probably prefer that—plunks down next to Clint on the mat. They’re both in the gym, and Clint’s wrapping his hands in preparation for sparring with Nat. He’s not sure what Tony’s doing there. Tony doesn’t really do the whole gym thing. But apparently he’s making an exception today. To talk about his cat. And his childhood. Sure. Totally normal.

“Yeah?” Clint tries to sound interested and fails miserably, but Tony takes it as his cue to keep talking.

“Yeah. Really relaxed me, actually. I was a super anxious kid.”

“Can’t imagine that.”

“So one day my mom came home with this tiny kitten—couldn’t have been more than a pound or two, they call them ragdolls because they kind of hang limply when you pet them, and it was orange and splotchy and criminally adorable.” Clint puts down the bandages, and Tony picks them up, beginning to wrap his own hands. OK, so apparently Stark’s going to spar with them. This should be fun.

“I called it Newton,” says Tony. “Newton followed me around the house, all day, every damn day. My mom said cats weren’t usually like that, and she was sorry about it, but I didn’t mind. Everyone else—well, not everyone—but the people who mattered, they kind of ignored me, so it was nice to have the constant attention of this fluffy orange thing. I made it stuff. Heated beds, motorized mouse toys, that kind of thing.” He pauses. “When my parents died, I still had Newt to remind me that sometimes, on rare occasion, they’d done good things for me beyond having a shitload of money and giving me everything I asked for. My mom was almost my friend sometimes. And sad as it was, she’d given me another friend, an almost annoyingly loyal friend. And it helped a lot, having that damn cat around to purr and snuggle the hell out of me.” He hands the roll of bandages back to Clint. “You should get a cat, is what I’m saying. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a date with the good captain.”

“You’re sparring with Steve?” Clint snorts. “Good luck.”

Tony salutes. “A cat, Barton. You could use one.”

Natasha walks in and pulls Clint to his feet. “What’s he talking about?”

“Nat,” Clint says, sighing, “I really and truly have no idea.” Of course, he’s lying—Stark thinks a cat would help him work through his supposed grief attached to Phil’s death—and of course, Natasha knows that, but she nods and kicks his ass while they spar like she always does.


	4. Chapter 4

“Can you help me with something?”

Clint looks up from his book at Jane. Well, Phil’s book, actually— _The Andromeda Strain_. He’d borrowed it from Phil years before and never really had the downtime to get into it. But now that he’s an Avenger, now that there’s time between emergencies to relax, he’s been catching up on reading all those books Phil used to reference. And yeah, maybe Phil’s not here to discuss them now, but it’s almost like Clint’s sustaining a connection to him, making their friendship last longer, go deeper, and that’s something. That’s a whole lot of something.

Jane’s smiling, head cocked to the side, and Clint considers, not for the first time, how much nicer it would be if Jane were the one flirting with him rather than Darcy. Both are staying in the Tower right now, Jane having been offered a fairly lucrative contract with SHIELD and taken Darcy on as her assistant. She’s smitten with Thor—that much is obvious—but she’s sweet and genuine and sarcastic without being caustic, whereas Darcy is too loud and too blunt and too much on all levels. Also, Jane doesn’t wear makeup, and she’s still one of the best looking girls Clint’s ever seen. Maybe it’s because of that, come to think of it. Clint will have to ask Nat for her insight on that one, though he’s not sure he wants her knowing that he looks at Jane that way.

He doesn’t really look at anyone that way. Hasn’t in a while. But Jane’s nice to look at. So he does, and he smiles, and he says, “Sure, what’s up?”

Turns out she wants to set up a telescope on the roof, and since he hangs out on the roof more than anyone else (shocker), she figured he’d be the best possible person to help her up there. He complies, showing her the best method for someone a little less athletic than he is to get to the top of the building, and soon enough they’re assembling the scope and she’s training it on Jupiter. It’s damn near impossible to see stars in Manhattan, but Tony’s been making strides in eliminating light pollution throughout certain neighborhoods; as a result, stuff like this—stuff that’s so beyond bright—is becoming visible.

“It’s weird,” she says as Clint peers at the planet. He decides not to give her his own commentary, which is something along the lines of “Damn, that is one glowy world.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, before—everything, I suppose, before Thor and Asgard and the tesseract, this kind of thing seemed larger than life,” says Jane. “Like I’d never be able to comprehend it, Jupiter’s rotation and visibility in contrast with Saturn’s or Mars’ or what have you. But then I find out there’s this whole other plane beyond what we think we know, and it’s like, why even pursue science when there’s no possible way you can know everything?”

“I thought science existed because we knew that we didn’t know everything,” Clint says. “Like, if we could even discover one thing on our own, that would be enough of a success to keep going. To keep looking.”

“That’s kind of beautiful, Clint.”

“I try.” He pauses. “Want to tell me to buy a cat or share my feelings or something?”

Jane laughs. “Has that been happening a lot lately?”

“Yeah, actually, it has. I don’t know why.” He does.

“Really?” No, not really.

“Really, I don’t.” But she doesn’t need to know that.

Jane slings her arm around his waist and squeezes before nudging her hip against his and taking up her post behind the scope again. “You’ll get there.”

Clint doesn’t ask what she means, because he already knows and this is really getting kind of ridiculous, and he opts to look at the stars instead, though he can’t see much of anything.


	5. Chapter 5

“Used to do this with Phil sometimes,” Clint says.

“I’m assuming you mean the yoga part, not the meditation part,” says Bruce. “Since you’re so bad at meditation.”

“Ouch.”

“You’re talking to me. That’s not really how meditation works.”

“Yeah, well.” Clint transitions into a shoulder stand. Bruce follows his lead. “People are always on me about how I haven’t grieved, haven’t talked about him. So I thought I’d do it now. While we’re relaxing or whatever.”

“Do you find this relaxing?” Bruce asks, on the verge of grunting. He eases back down into a resting pose before stretching his spine upward for a bridge.

“More relaxing than Stark telling me to get a cat and Steve telling me he’s gay,” says Clint.

“Steve’s gay?”

“Or bi. I think he told me he was in love with his friend—Rocky? Bullwinkle? Buckle?”

Bruce huffs out a laugh. “Bucky. James Buchanan Barnes. And I’ve seen the newsreels. I kinda picked up on that being more than boyhood affection.”

“Steve’s love life is an 80-year bummer,” says Clint. “Or something close to it. Do you ever think he and Nat—”

“No,” Bruce says, too quickly, Clint thinks, before turning away from Clint as he moves onto his stomach for a series of cobras and what he calls jet airplanes, though Clint’s pretty sure that’s not the technical name.

“Do you ever think you and Nat?” Clint grins at him before lying back. Four minutes of standing on his shoulders is more than enough.

“Don’t tell her.”

“Secret’s safe with me.” Clint breathes deeply, evenly. “Anyway. Phil would kind of coerce me into doing this a few times a month. He went to a bikram place in Park Slope. I used to tell him I was the only one in SHIELD who’d ever seen Phil Coulson sweat.” Bruce laughs, and Clint says, “Yeah, he didn’t think it was funny. But it was good, you know? Team bonding, or whatever. I started to find out stuff about him I wouldn’t necessarily hear on missions or at HQ. Favorite movies. Least favorite authors. TV shows he had trouble admitting he watched. Dealbreakers. First date nightmares. By the time—well—I—he was probably my best friend.”

“Natasha would be horrified to hear you say so.”

Clint shakes his head. Bruce lies down next to him, which is good. It’s easier to say this if he doesn’t have to look anyone in the eye. “She knew that. She—she knew more than anyone what I thought about him.”

“It’s OK, you know,” says Bruce. “To still think about him. Even if you weren’t, you know, interested in him. And that’s your own business. I’m not asking if you were. I’m just saying, thinking, feeling—these are common human reactions to tragedy.”

“Yeah,” Clint says. “I know. It’s—look, I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I do, contrary to popular belief, feel things. I just don’t want it to distract me from what’s important. Phil would understand. It’s what he would want, too.”

“Isn’t he what’s important?”

“Was,” Clint corrects Bruce. “Was important. And his memory is, now, I guess.”

“Clint.” Bruce leans up on one elbow to look at him. “You are aware SHIELD doesn’t always tell us everything, right? They’ve got a history of deception?”

Clint sits up and rakes a hand through his hair. Of course he’s aware, of course he’s thought about this, but it’s a train of thought he hasn’t dared board, or some other shitty metaphor like that. “I can’t—I can’t let myself think about that, OK? It’s tempting. It’s possible. But I’m OK right now. Not perfect, but better than I was. He’d—it would’ve made him happy, knowing I was able to settle without my old SO.” Clint pauses. “I mean, now my SO’s Captain America, so he’d also be insanely jealous.”

“I don’t know if I’ve ever heard you talk this much before,” says Bruce.

“And I’ve definitely never heard you talk this much, Doc,” Clint says, standing up and offering Bruce a hand. He accepts it. “Definitely not meditate with me again sometime?”

“I’d like that,” says Bruce.


	6. Chapter 6

“Hey, coach,” Clint says, saluting. Fury wanted to meet on the helicarrier, which, yeah, no, Clint isn’t sure he’s up to that just yet. So here they are in Fury’s office, Clint sitting opposite Fury like a naughty kid in the principal’s office. At least, that’s what Clint assumes this is like. When he was in school—and that was sporadic, and it never lasted long—he was pretty quiet, non-confrontational, exactly what no one would expect him to be, he supposes.

“Normally I’d spew some bullshit about insubordination,” says Fury. “Say you should call me by my real title and not some term of endearment. But what I’m about to tell you is probably going to piss you off, and I don’t want to kill the mood.”

Of course, by this point, Clint’s heard murmurs, murmurs from Jasper, murmurs from Carter, murmurs from, in her weaker moments, Maria. But he’s tried not to put much stock in any of that. Now that everyone seems to have said their piece about Clint’s inner life, things have been much better for him. And he sees no reason to shake that up. So when Fury calmly informs him that Phil Coulson is alive and on a plane headed for a mission requiring more than one sniper, it makes total sense for Clint to lose his shit. He doesn’t. But would it be justified? Abso-fucking-lutely.

“This whole time, then,” he says flatly, and Fury nods.

“He thought it better we didn’t tell his old team.”

“You mean you thought it better.”

“I do still know what insubordination means, Barton.”

“All due respect, sir, I think your definition of insubordination got lost sometime around when you told me you’ve been lying to me about my former SO’s mortality.” Clint breathes out heavily. “Does anyone else know?”

“Just a few senior agents and his own team,” says Fury.

“So you let us—Nat and me, both senior agents, by the way, and the rest of the Avengers, who basically supersede ranking—grieve?”

“From what I know, Barton, you haven’t done much grieving.”

“Not you, too,” Clint moans. “I’m allowed to grieve in my own way, OK? Not that I needed to. Since he’s alive. And you’ve known that for, what’s it been, like six months now?”

“Almost didn’t make it,” says Fury. “But he’s the one who should tell you about it, if anyone does. I’ll send you the coordinates tonight. Take a quinjet tomorrow morning. They’ll need you at 0800.”

“That’s it?”

“Did I stutter, Barton? Yes. That’s it. You have a mission. Go do it.”

“I’m an Avenger now,” Clint says, as if he has to remind the bastard.

“I’m well aware,” says Fury. “But you’re also the best sniper we have, certainly better than the one Cheese has on board.”

“Did Phil pick him out?”

Fury waves his hand dismissively. “He wanted you. But you were otherwise occupied.”

“Right. OK. What do I tell the team?”

“I’ll handle that.”

“Oh ... kay.” Clint stands. “Anything else I should know before I go?”

“One thing,” Fury says. “Phil’s been trying to call you. He’s even written a few letters. I mean, physical letters, pen and paper. But as I said, you were otherwise occupied, so I blocked off his outgoing communications. Tried Romanov once or twice, too.”

“All due respect, sir? Fuck you.”

“I’m not entirely convinced I deserve that,” says Fury. He’s grinning. The bastard. “Oh, and do me a favor? Don’t tell Romanov. I’ll let her know in my own time.”

“I won’t,” Clint says, and the crazy thing is he means it, because this isn’t his secret to tell. It’s not Fury’s, either. It’s Phil’s. And if Clint’s guessing correctly, there will be a few more of those in store tomorrow.


	7. Chapter 7

Most of these people, Clint realizes, aren’t familiar to him. Fury had given him some info, however limited, on Phil’s team—two scientists, two field agents, and a stray hacker Phil had picked up early on. He’s never met the scientists, he has a passing familiarity with Ward, and he doesn’t know the hacker from Eve. And he’s not sure he’s ready to look at Phil yet. So it’s Melinda he approaches, Melinda who shocks the others—their reactions are visible, and hilarious—by hugging him when he gets out of the jet and walks across the hangar. May and the others are standing outside a plane Fury had referred to as the Bus, and now, so is Clint, letting his old friend cling to him for a few seconds before taking a step back.

“I’m told you needed an extra sniper,” Clint says, nodding at Ward. Ward looks a bit awestruck as he salutes back, and Clint tries not to roll his eyes. He knows Phil’s never been wild about the guy. “He’s like what B-grade AIM techs would build if they were trying to approximate you,” Phil had said once after he’d joined Strike Team Whiskey on a mission when their SO was otherwise occupied. “Great but not perfect aim. Handsome but not interesting. Caustic without a hint of humor.” Clint hadn’t thought too much about the ‘handsome’ part at the time. He’s thinking about it now.

“That’s how he drew you out here, huh?”

“How he—you don’t?”

“Well, we do,” says Melinda. “But only because Ward’s not as good a shot as you.”

“Hey!”

“Factually accurate.” Phil steps forward. He’d been watching Clint since he’d first arrived, as if he was waiting for an in, and this was good enough. “Barton.”

Clint shakes his head and can’t help himself as he reaches forward, pulling Phil in. He tries to make it a hug rather than an embrace, but he’s not sure how well he does with that. “Barton? Really?”

Phil doesn’t let go. “I don’t know, do I still deserve to call you by your first name?”

Clint doesn’t, either. “Well, I’d give you a ‘You never call, you never write,’ but apparently you do both, and Fury’s just kind of an asshole.”

“Also factually accurate,” says Phil. He pulls away just enough to look Clint in the face, still grasping his elbows, of all things, and Clint can’t even flex those, and why the hell does he want to posture for Phil all of a sudden? “It’s good to see you, Clint.”

“Good to see you, too, Phil.” Clint hugs him again, quickly, before stepping away enough that they’re not holding each other anymore and he doesn’t have to keep ... feeling, he supposes. Literally and figuratively. He’s always liked Phil. Loved him, even, in some way or another. He just hadn’t remembered how much. “So, the rumors of your death...”

Phil nods. “Greatly exaggerated. Let’s get on the Bus. You’ll need to meet everyone before we brief.”


	8. Chapter 8

“Unfortunately, what we have isn’t a wealth of information,” says Phil, dropping an overstuffed folder on the table where he, Clint, and Ward are gathered. “But we’ve been successful with less. Ward?”

Ward—Grant, Clint’s been told to call him twice—nods and opens the folder. He hands Clint the topmost paper. “Shane and Alexandra Harper. Most recent aliases: Jeff and Kendra Lewis. They’re siblings, but they’ll pose as husband and wife, business partners, whatever suits the situation. They’re recruiters.”

“For?”

“A.I.M.,” Phil says. “The only A.I.M. agents whose faces I’ve seen. They get sent out to abduct mutants.”

“Superhumans.”

“Right?”

“For what purpose?”

Phil looks up at Clint. “So they can take them back to base and attempt to extract their mutations.”

“Everyone’s got a hobby, I guess,” says Clint, and Phil laughs, and Ward looks at Phil like he’s never seen such a thing. He probably hasn’t, come to think of it. It took Clint three solid months to get anything more than half a smile out of Phil. Ward’s clearly not trying hard enough. That, or Phil doesn’t like him enough in the first place. (Clint’s hoping for the latter.) “What’s the plan?”

“Last time we tangled with them—” Clint makes a valiant effort not to laugh at Ward. He succeeds, mostly, by coughing into his hand and mumbling out an “Excuse me.” To the untrained observer, Phil’s expression would appear completely blank, but Clint can see the smile playing around his eyes. “We were able to get one, but as soon as we took out Shane, Alexandra—well, she shot back.”

“And she’s not a bad shot,” Phil says. “Nearly got Ward in the arm.”

“Apparently, they’re fiercely loyal to each other,” says Ward. “The only way we’re going to stop them is if we take out both of them at the same time.”

“And you can’t do it?” Clint asks Phil. Ward looks at Clint sharply, as though he thinks Clint’s talking out of turn. And maybe here, he is. But Clint’s genuinely curious. Phil’s at least as good with a gun as he is, if not better.

“I’m better suited to be the one in the van for this one,” says Phil. “And it was a good excuse to get you out here.”

“Where is here, by the way?”

“Montreal,” Ward says. “That’s where we’re going now, that is. Not sure of our approximate location right now. I could ask May.”

“Are we done?” Phil looks amused. Clint wonders if Ward can detect that.

“Well, due respect, there’s not much more we can plan right now, is there?” Ward asks. “Agent Barton and I will set up posts from which we can communicate with each other. Once one of us has a target in sight, they’ll inform the other. If they have both targets in sight—”

“I will,” says Clint.

“Then all the better. We take our shots, we get them to a safe house, we arrange for a pickup, we go wherever they need us next.” Ward looks at Phil expectantly. He’s a bit like a dog, really, Clint thinks, this relentless desire for approval. But he’s less fun than a dog. Less cute, too.

Phil nods. “Then I suppose we’re all dismissed.” Ward stands and salutes Phil. He makes a motion to do the same to Clint, and Clint laughs.

“You’ve already done that one too many times, Ward,” says Clint. “You can just say goodbye next time.”

“Right. Sure. OK. Bye.”

Clint waits till he’s out of earshot and says to Phil, “How do you even handle that?”

Phil laughs and says, “I really don’t know. Garrett was his SO before this—John Garrett?”

“Yeah, I know him.” Clint doesn’t much care for Garrett. There’s something about him that’s a little off beyond simple quirkiness. But he’d rather hear Phil talk than think about that, so he listens.

“John told me the awkwardness would peter out in time,” says Phil. “But it’s been a couple months, and there’s no sign of it slowing. He does have a thing for May, though. And that, at least, is entertaining.”

“I’m sure she loves that,” Clint says.

“Hasn’t shot him down yet,” says Phil. “Want to see where you’re sleeping?” Clint nods, even though that sounds almost like a line, if Phil were to stoop so low as lines, and they stand and fall into step together.


	9. Chapter 9

“How is everyone?” Phil asks.

“Oh, the Avengers, you mean? Earth’s mightiest heroes? The heroes of New York?” Clint grins when Phil rolls his eyes. “We’re good. We’re great. Stark and Steve don’t seem to hate each other anymore, except when Stark eats a sandwich Steve made for himself. Thor is Thor. Jane’s around a lot.”

“That’s good. I like Jane.”

“Yeah, unfortunately, so’s Darcy.”

“I like Darcy slightly less,” says Phil. “She still flirting with you at every turn?”

“Why, you jealous?” Clint’s planning to wink at Phil exaggeratedly as he says it. He decides not to when the tips of Phil’s ears turn slightly pink. “And Bruce is my new yoga buddy.”

“You replaced me?” Phil opens a door—the door to his quarters, as it turns out. “I’m wounded, Clint.”

“Well, it’s not bikram, so not quite,” says Clint. “And I’d never tell Bruce this, but your down dog form is much stronger than his.”

“That’s some consolation,” Phil says. “This is where you’ll be.” He gestures to the cot set up next to what’s very clearly Phil’s bed. “I know it’s not quite a pillow-top mattress and silk sheets at Stark Tower, but it’ll have to do.”

“I’ve slept in worse conditions,” says Clint. “Remember Anchorage?”

“I try not to.”

“That’s fair.”

“I noticed you left a name off your list.”

“Oh. Nat.”

“Right,” Phil says. “Natasha. How is she?”

“She’s Natasha,” says Clint. “She’s the same as she always was. Well, she hangs out with Maria Hill a little more often, and she doesn’t know, but Bruce has a thing for her that she’s probably knowingly cultivated.”

Phil sinks down onto his bed. Clint’s not sure what his next move’s supposed to be, but sitting down next to Phil seems as good a move as any. “I didn’t know—when Nick told me that I couldn’t speak to any of you, I had the sense that you and Natasha could weather it,” says Phil. He sounds tired, like he’s thought or said these things before and never quite believed them. “The others, we weren’t close, they’d manage fine. But the three of us—I wouldn’t say so in front of Nick, he’s more sensitive than he lets on—the two of you have been my closest friends for years.” Phil pauses before saying, “Your resilience—it’s one of the reasons I respect you so much. Both of you.”

“You make it sound like she and I are the same person,” says Clint.

“You know I don’t see it like that,” Phil says. “You do know that, right?”

“Of course.”

“Some other agents—not naming names—have said they’re jealous I got the matched set,” says Phil. “Barton and Romanov, the unstoppable forces of nature, the smart-mouthed sharpshooter and the sexy superspy.”

“I’m sure they use that much alliteration, too.”

“Prick,” Phil says fondly. “Anyway, I let them be jealous, but really, just one of you would be enough. You and I—when we were Delta, before you found Natasha—that was as good. If not better, sometimes.”

“She’d kill you for saying so.”

“And I never would, unless it’s just me and you. Like, well, now.”

Clint looks at Phil’s hand lying next to his, inches his pinky finger a bit closer to Phil’s, brushes it against the very edge of Phil’s. He hears Phil’s breath catch.

“You didn’t need me here, Phil,” says Clint. He hooks his pinky around Phil’s.

“Not for the mission, no,” Phil says. He’s staring at his finger linked with Clint’s. “Did you ever think...” He trails off.

“Sometimes.”

“You never said anything.”

“What was there to say? It’s not like it was allowed.”

“There...” Phil clears his throat slightly, like these are words that absolutely need to make their way out. “There are exceptions. I—remember New Mexico?”

“How could I forget New Mexico, Phil?”

Phil smiles wryly. “After New Mexico, I told Nick I’d been emotionally compromised when it came to you. That if I had to make a call in the field, and the better choice had a chance of hurting you, then I’d choose the worse option.”

“That’s ... flattering.”

“And stupid,” says Phil. “But it was true. Is. Still true. And Nick just looked at me and told me to do something. Say something to you. But I never really had a great chance after that.”

“Why New Mexico?” Clint asks.

“It had always been there,” says Phil. “Kind of one of those lingering things you can’t shake. Even when you were first recruited and an absolute asshole.”

“I’d be offended if it weren’t true.”

“But in New Mexico, with Thor and all this literal alien weirdness, you were still so calm.”

“I was calm? You’re the picture of calm. I’ve never seen you anything but pristine.”

“Except at bikram.”

“Except for that.” Clint rearranges his fingers so they’re completely intertwined with Phil’s. “I—look, I didn’t think about it much then, and I definitely haven’t thought about it in the last few months. Till Fury called me in, at least. But if you put together a thing for competence and a working relationship with Phil Coulson, it’s pretty hard not to have some kind of interest there.”

“A thing for competence, huh?”

“You’ve always checked all my boxes,” Clint says softly, squeezing Phil’s hand. “But there was the job, and there was Bobbi, and there was Audrey—is there still Audrey?”

Phil’s grip tightens. “No. We were trying out being friends when I died. I haven’t contacted her since pulling a Lazarus.”

“Not a lot of people can throw around the phrase ‘when I died.’”

“Yeah, thank Streiten and Nick for that.”

“How’d they do it, anyway?”

“Tahiti,” says Phil. “It’s a magical place.” His face darkens for a fraction of a second before the easy smile returns. “And I’m here now. And I made it so you could be, too.”

“Made it so, huh?” Clint nudges his knee against Phil’s. “Don’t tell me you hired these A.I.M. recruiters just so we could hang out.”

“No, the Harpers have been an issue for a while,” Phil says. “It was just my idea to get another sniper here. A good one.”

“So Ward isn’t good, then?”

“He’s fine.” Phil leans a little closer to Clint. “But you’re the best.”

He kisses Clint then, gingerly, like he’s afraid Clint’s about to shatter into a million pieces. And maybe Clint will. Maybe this feels too unexpected, too sudden—but then, haven’t these five-odd years of friendship been leading somewhere like this? If it’s too much of anything, it’s too good, too right as Phil puts his hand against the back of Clint’s head, cradling it forward as he parts his lips just enough for Clint to slip his tongue through. It’s all so slow and careful and soft, so unlike what Clint’s used to, and he decides before he stops having any truly coherent thoughts at all that he’s OK with this lasting forever.

It’s Melinda’s voice that interrupts them several minutes later. They’re not entirely horizontal, but it’s a near thing, and Phil’s still kissing him so carefully that Clint’s not sure he’s ever felt more _appreciated_ than this, and it’s unfamiliar and warm and wonderful.

“We’re five minutes from the Montreal base,” Melinda informs them over the PA. “Can you tell the others?”

“Have someone else do it,” Clint says to Phil under his breath, nuzzling under Phil’s ear.

“I’ll do that. Thank you, May.” Phil looks at Clint and says, matter of fact, “You’re killing me.”

“Whenever you need me here to do that,” says Clint, “I’ll be ready.”

“Come with me, make them jealous?” Phil stands and pulls Clint by the hand.

“Are you seriously going to hold my hand in front of your team?”

“I thought I could do that, yes.”

“Oh. Huh. Then sure. Yeah. Let’s do that. This is just because I’m an Avenger, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Clint,” Phil says. “It has nothing to do with years of pining and days of plotting to get you on my plane, and everything to do with your relatively new celebrity status.”

“Cool,” says Clint. “Just wanted to make sure. Fitzsimmons first?”

“Fitzsimmons first,” Phil agrees as they exit his quarters, hand in hand.


	10. Chapter 10

“You still know French?” Clint asks Phil over the comms.

“ _Je ne parle beaucoup français_ ,” he says, and Clint can practically hear him rolling his eyes. “Why? Are there some locals you’d like to hit on and you need to borrow my expertise?”

“I have to say, sir, this whole ‘jealous type’ thing is really working for me.”

“All due respect, but could the two of stop?” asks Ward. “I didn’t realize I had accepted a mission with ... with newlyweds.”

“He was going to say ‘old married couple,’ sir,” Clint says. “I’m insulted. Where’d you get this guy, anyway?”

“You all know I’m here, too, right?” Melinda sounds more amused than annoyed. “And, permission to be frank, sir?”

“Permission granted.”

“It’s about damn time.”

“Death cannot stop a relationship between coworkers,” Clint says, hoping Phil’s smiling as stupidly wide as he is. “All it can do is delay it for a while.”

Clint hears a snort. “Coworkers? You call yourselves that?”

“Skye, why are you even on the line?” Phil’s using the same exasperated, fatherly tone he usually takes around Skye. Clint’s been insisting to himself it isn’t adorable. (It is.)

“Because Jemma and Fitz are playing chess and they said I cheat,” says Skye.

“Target in sight yet?” asks Phil.

“There’s been some movement from the coffee shop where they’re parked,” Clint says.

“There has?” Ward sounds surprised. Clint’s pretty sure Phil’s choking back a laugh.

“But nothing of them yet.” Just as Clint says it, the door of the building he’s been watching for three and a half hours swings open.

“Aha,” he says. “Can you get a visual, sir?”

“How clearly can you see them?”

“Clear enough for hair color and facial expressions. Looks like they’re cutting over to that alley.”

“They always go for the suspicious-looking alleyway,” Phil says with a sigh.

“Visual confirmed,” says Melinda. “Different hair colors and styles from last time, but it’s definitely them. Hawkeye, do you think you’ll be able to take them out after they’ve passed the partition between the street and the alley?”

“Affirmative.”

“Ward?”

“Affirmative.”

“You have your signal?”

“You do now,” says Phil. “Take the shot.”

Clint can’t see Ward from where he’s perched, but they’ve agreed to wait one, two, three seconds after Phil’s finished speaking to shoot. Clint’s less confident with a gun than with a bow, always has been, but it’s a clean shot, as is Ward’s, and both targets seem to crumple to the ground.

“That felt too easy,” Clint says. “They have to be soaked in sex pollen or something. I nominate Grant to go retrieve them.”

“Hey!”

“Nomination accepted,” says Phil. “Assuming, that is, you’ll be accompanying him.”

“Really? I thought I’d get some favoritism here. You know, not a lot, but _some_.”

“I _am_ favoring you. I’m saying you’re stronger than Melinda or me and therefore better at dragging suspects into vans.”

He knows no one can see it, but Clint’s shaking his head and rolling his eyes as he leaves his perch—it’s a tree, an actual tree, and fuck if Clint doesn’t love Canada—and walks toward the alley. Ward joins him a minute or two later.

“Don’t worry, I’ll let you carry the girl,” Clint says, hefting a very much unconscious Shane Harper over his shoulder. “As long as you don’t do, like, over the threshold style, because that’s super creepy when the person’s not conscious. Nice shot, by the way.”

“Thanks.” Clint can tell Ward’s trying not to sound too pleased by the compliment. “Do you know where our rendezvous point is?”

“Apparently it’s right here,” says Clint as an unmarked black van pulls up in front of them. One of the back doors slides open, and Clint semi-carefully arranges Shane upright in the back seat. He steps away so Ward can do the same with Alexandra, but not before her eyes flutter open. She looks at Ward only for a second before biting his hand. Without thinking, Clint reaches into one of the seemingly infinite pockets of his tac suit and retrieves a syringe of the same sedative the bullets carried. He jabs it into Alexandra’s neck, and she thrashes momentarily before going still.

“You’re not horny now, are you?” Clint asks Ward as they’re getting into the middle seat.

“What? No!” Ward looks horrified. “I don’t feel anything different. At least, not yet.”

“I don’t think you can transfer sex pollen through the teeth,” says Phil. “Nice reflexes, Hawkeye.”

“Only the best for you. And, by extension, your team. You want to test that sex pollen theory later?” Clint leans forward. “You know I’m only doing this to make everyone else uncomfortable, right? The bad sex jokes will stop the second we’re behind closed doors. As other things are starting.” Phil doesn’t say anything, but he does look at Clint in the rear view mirror and smirk.

“I take it back,” says Melinda as she takes a sharp turn out of the alley. “It isn’t about damn time. It’s never time for whatever the hell this is.”

“I agree,” Ward says. “I’m not even going to say ‘due respect’ this time.”

“You just did, though.” Clint pats Ward on the shoulder. “Feel weird yet?”

“I think she was just biting me to bite me,” says Ward. “How far to base?”

“Probably long enough for Barton to nod off,” Melinda says, or at least, Clint’s pretty sure that’s what she says. The next thing he hears is Phil saying his name.

“Don’t tell me Melinda made a joke about how easily I fall asleep when I’m in a SHIELD vehicle with you,” says Clint, stretching and hopping out of the van.

“She wasn’t that specific,” Phil says. They’re back in the hangar where the Bus is docked, and Phil’s leading Clint to the plane with one hand on the small of his back. “So that isn’t a coincidence?”

“What, that I only sleep well when I’m at home or around you?”

“I don’t think you’ve ever told me that.”

“Why would I?” Clint asks. “It’s kind of embarrassing and sentimental, isn’t it?”

“Sentiment doesn’t always have to be embarrassing.” Phil doesn’t move his hand as they pass through the lounge, where Skye and Fitzsimmons have apparently gotten bored enough for a game of Clue. He opens the door to his quarters and pulls Clint onto the bed with him. “As an example, I’m not embarrassed to admit it made me proud when you complimented Grant’s shot today.”

“You were still listening? That was a private conversation, sir.”

“About calling me ‘sir’ when we’re literally _in my bedroom_ —”

Clint cuts him off with a kiss. It’s not the delicate taking each other apart of earlier; it’s rough and messy and hopefully, it clears up what Clint’s looking for right now. But just in case it doesn’t...

“You know I like bantering with you, Phil,” he says. “But this mission’s almost over, and I think we have better things to be doing with what limited time we have together, don’t you think?”

Phil answers Clint by taking his wrists in both hands and pushing till he’s balanced over Clint, grip strong and sure, just about as hot as Clint’s ever seen him, and his fucking tie’s not even undone yet.

“Glad we’re agreed on this,” says Clint.

“Shut up, Barton,” Phil says before doing so in a way Clint considers highly effective.


	11. Chapter 11

“How is he?”

Clint looks up. He’s been back all of twenty minutes, freshly unpacked and hoping for a nap before meeting up with the team in any capacity. Leave it to Natasha to ruin it. She’s leaning against the doorframe, looking like a grad student in her stained white t-shirt and wrinkled jeans, hair tied back in a messy braid. Clint looks at her outfit quizzically.

“Helping Banner,” she says. “In his lab. There’s this anomalous flu strain going around Xavier’s school and he’s working on an antidote.”

“Sounds about right,” says Clint. “You know he’s into you?”

Nat nods and walks over to his bed. He sits up and pats the open space next to where his legs are hidden underneath the comforter, and Nat settles into what looks like the lotus position.

“He teach you that?”

“I knew yoga before I met Bruce,” Nat says.

“Bruce, huh?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“But I’m so good at it.”

“No,” she says, smiling faintly. “You’re really not. How is he?”

“He’s...” Clint takes a deep breath. “He’s good. Settled. Maybe even happy.”

“Do you think you had anything to do with that?”

“Probably a bit, yeah.” Clint looks up at her. “We’re kind of together now. Well, not kind of. Definitely together. Like, I’d call him my boyfriend if you asked together.”

“Seems a bit sudden.”

Clint laughs. “Like you didn’t see this coming.”

“Oh, of course I did,” Nat says, smirking. “For years.”

“You didn’t think to mention it to me?”

“I, like you, believed it couldn’t happen while you were in your respective positions.”

“Well...”

“Would that have changed anything?” Nat looks at him, speculative. “If you had known it was alright, which I assume is what you’re implying.”

“I’m not sure it would’ve,” says Clint. “For being actual secret agents, we’re both pretty chicken shit about the whole thing. It took Fury matchmaking for something to actually happen.”

“Nick Fury, matchmaker. Has a nice ring to it.”

“When’d he tell you guys?”

“A few hours after you left,” Nat says. “It was ... It was something. I’ve suspected for a while. So has Bruce. But Tony, Steve, Thor—I really don’t think they had any idea.”

“None of them are mad at Phil, are they?” asks Clint. “Because it wasn’t his fault. He tried to contact me. And you.”

“No, it’s all being held against Nick.”

“Fair.” Clint heaves a sigh. “At least he told you all. I can’t imagine—it would’ve been really hard to come back from that and not say anything.”

“You would’ve told me anyway.”

“I would’ve.”

Nat reaches over and puts her hand over Clint’s. “Did you know? From the beginning? Is that why you never...”

“Grieved?” Clint flips his hand over and laces their fingers together. “I don’t grieve, Natasha. I don’t—it’s just—it’s not something I do. I work through it in my head, I resolve that I can’t do anything about it, I close the book, that’s it.” He pauses. “Of course, it was a lot harder than that with Phil. But it’s not grieving so much as settling for a different reality, you know? I—there’s just been too much loss for me to break down over it every time. He’d get that, you know. I think he did get it. We didn’t talk about it. But that tells me he understood.”

“Emotion-wise,” says Nat, “you’re not the easiest read. I assumed if you needed my help, you’d ask.”

“And I always will,” Clint says. “But it was just, OK, my friend, wish he’d been more but that’s kind of a moot point, he’s gone. And he’d want me to move forward and remember that we had something good together. But that’s all he’d want.”

There’s a minute or so of silence before Nat lets go of Clint’s hand and says, “You make a lot of sense together. You always have, friends, colleagues, and what you are now. I wouldn’t...” Her eyes are shining slightly, and Clint knows this is a conversation he’ll never share with anyone, not even Phil—who would, of course, understand that. “There’s no one else for you, Clint.”

“Yeah,” he says. “There isn’t.”

She stands. “Take a nap. I know it’s what you want. Oh, and before I forget, Stark has some idea that maybe you were in on the whole thing and that’s why you weren’t cripplingly depressed. So maybe talk to him about that sometime.”

“You said he was only mad at Fury!”

“He is,” she says. “With you, it’s more confusion.”

“I’ll get on that as soon as I’ve stared at the inside of my eyelids for a few hours,” says Clint. “Thanks, Nat.”

“Anytime,” she says, because he doesn’t have to say what he’s thanking her for. She already knows.


	12. Chapter 12

Clint doesn’t have to go looking for Tony, because Tony’s in his bedroom the next morning, trying to do ... something. Something sneaky, Clint supposes, but Tony’s not great at the whole sneakiness thing. He’s just too Tony. So he’s making all kinds of noise as he sets up a covered plastic box-type thing and puts down a cardboard box with a handle next to it before revealing yet another box and taking out—wait, is that a scratching post?

“What are you doing?” Clint asks, forcing his eyes open. He’d been having a good dream, a Phil-related dream, but the presence of Tony Stark in his room had kind of killed that mood.

“Oh.” Tony looks over for a second before going back to fussing with the scratching post. “I just thought—I wanted you to know that there were no hard feelings about all the lying. Or potential lying, because Romanov seems fairly convinced you didn’t know about Agent’s livelihood. I’m a bit more skeptical. But if that was your secret to keep, then hey, who am I to hold it against you? God knows I don’t tell all of you everything.” He steps back from the scratching post, looking pleased, before stooping down and opening the cardboard box. He draws out its contents and drops it on the foot of Clint’s bed.

“Meow,” says the kitten who’s standing on Clint’s foot—he can feel teeny tiny claws through his comforter and blanket and sheet, which, hey, pretty impressive. It’s actually more of an eeping noise than a meow, presumably because the thing can’t be older than a few months old. It’s white, or at least white-ish, with a dark brown face and ears and paws. Cute, generally. But also a cat, which Clint doesn’t remember asking for.

“Couple things,” says Clint, running his hand over his face in effort to rub the sleepiness away. It doesn’t work. “First, I didn’t know shit. Fury blocked Phil’s communication channels that didn’t have to do with his mission. Missions, plural, I guess. So he couldn’t reach me if he tried. And both Phil and Fury say he did.” Clint pauses. “I believe Phil sooner than I believe Fury. But really, he tried and he failed, and I thought he was dead. Second, Phil’s alive and we’re actually together now. Well, not in a physical sense, but, you know. We were. And will be.”

“I know what ‘together’ means.”

“But do you know what ‘alive’ means? It means I don’t need a reason to grieve. So why’d you get me that thing?”

“That ‘thing’ is a Siamese kitten. Purebred and perfect. And it has a name.”

“Whatever it is, it’s getting changed, knowing cat breeders.”

“Do you know many cat breeders?”

“Why is it here?”

“Because you’re going to be pining constantly now, and you’ll need a cat to help you through it,” Tony says, as if it’s the most reasonable thing in the world. “So, you weren’t lying, then? You really just straight up didn’t grieve when your boyfriend pseudo-died?”

“He wasn’t my boyfriend yet,” says Clint. “And, look, grief looks different on different people, OK? I was working through it, just differently from how you all did.”

“Well, pretty similarly to Natasha, probably.”

“Probably.” Clint sits up and reaches toward the kitten, which bumps its head against his fingers till he scratches behind its ears, and OK, it’s pretty cute. Maybe even very cute.

“Is it a boy or a girl?”

“Male,” says Tony. “They called it Prince Rider of Long Island City.”

Clint scoops up the kitten in his palm. It doesn’t really fit, but it’s a near thing. He looks it in the face and says, “You’re Sergeant Whiskers now. Sarge for short.”

“You’re seriously naming your kitten—the kitten I painstakingly selected for you, to be your surrogate cuddler, no less—after a character from _Dog Cops_?”

“That’s how you know I appreciate it, OK?” Clint looks up at Tony. “Thanks. Really.”

Tony nods. “There’s cat food in your cupboard. And litter. Sorry. That part’s inescapable. But as far as I know, he already has the whole ‘shitting in a box’ thing down pat.”

“Comforting,” says Clint. “Can I go back to bed now?” Gently, he puts Sarge down on the bed and lies back, not waiting for Tony to answer. Sarge hops onto the pillow next to his ear and settles close enough that there are bits of fur making contact with Clint’s skin.

“OK, that’s just precious,” Tony says, taking out his phone and snapping a picture. “I’m sending that to Natasha, and she’s going to send it to Agent, OK?”

“Fuck off, Stark.”

“You’re welcome, Barton.”


	13. Chapter 13

News travels fast, and within two more days, Steve and Thor have congratulated him on his relationship with Phil (Thor called it handfasting, whatever that means) and Jane’s just hugged him with all her might. Bruce has smiled at him, showing more emotion than he typically does, really, and asked him to do some yoga, which they’re doing now, Clint gripping the soles of his feet while lying down, Bruce’s legs folded in lotus.

“Eventful mission, then?” Bruce asks.

“You could say that,” says Clint. “You should try this whole dating thing. It’s pretty cool. I bet it’s even better when it isn’t long distance.”

“We’re having dinner together tonight.” There’s that smile again. It’s becoming something of a fixture, at least when Bruce is talking to or about Nat, and Clint could get used to that. “She says she likes Indian. Does she actually? Or is she humoring me?”

“She likes most food.” Clint hops to his feet and settles himself into the warrior pose. “She eats a lot for being the tiniest person I know. You’ve probably noticed.”

“I imagine near-constant ass-kicking helps her keep looking the way she does,” says Bruce. “But yes, I had noticed. And she doesn’t seem put off by my appetite, which is, excuse the pun, monstrous.”

“That was pretty bad.”

“I’m in a good mood.” Bruce joins Clint in what will probably be a series of warrior poses. “This is what happens when that’s the case.”

“Have you been in a bad mood since I met you?”

“A really good mood,” Bruce corrects himself. “No. I’m usually feeling all right when I’m with you. And select others.”

“Natasha will be glad to hear that.”

“Do you record all our conversations?”

“Only some.” Clint transitions into the dancer pose. “You have some fans on Phil’s team, by the way. The science babies—Leo Fitz and Jemma Simmons—both practically worship you.”

“Is that so?” Bruce smirks. “They know how one of my more memorable experiments worked out, right?”

“Doesn’t seem to bother them,” says Clint. “Fitz wouldn’t shut up about your work with gene therapy. And Simmons just got stars in her eyes and nodded a lot when he was in the process of not shutting up.” He switches legs. “They’re good kids. He’s got a good thing going there.”

“Would it be better with you?” Bruce asks, sounding like he’s saying the words very carefully. Or maybe that’s because he’s curved over in a sun salutation and measuring his breath. Could be both, really.

“Well, two snipers are always better than one,” says Clint. “But I’m needed here. At least, I’m appreciated here, despite my lack of magical transformation or demigod status or ... well, you know.”

“I know. But for the record, we do need you. And I’m guessing Phil knows that. Otherwise he might be a bit more selfish.”

“Phil’s a lot of things. Most of them good. And selfish, I don’t think that’s one of them.”

“You know,” says Bruce, “I knew you didn’t know. Grief... It doesn’t have to be demonstrative. You spoke differently for a while. You were slightly more withdrawn, though not obviously so. You were working on it, on yourself. I could see that.”

“You see more than a lot of people do,” Clint says.

“But not as much as you do.”

“Few people have that ability.” Clint looks at Bruce and smiles as he straightens up, stretching one arm, then the other. “You’re well on your way.”

“You have somewhere to be?”

“Got a phone call set up with some guy,” says Clint, grabbing his towel and wiping the sweat from his brow. “I think he might like me. Really want to seal this deal. I got a good feeling about him.”

“I’m not sure I can handle you when you’re in love with someone,” Bruce says. He catches the expression on Clint’s face—one of abject horror, Clint can feel it—and amends, “Into. Did I say something else? I meant ‘into someone.’”

“Nice save, guy,” Clint says, clapping him on the shoulder as he turns to leave. He knows Phil doesn’t hate looking at him when he’s sweaty and disgusting (Clint can’t imagine why, maybe it reminds him of sex or something), but regardless, he needs a shower before this call. Phil’s got a secure line set up for the two of them to Skype, and this is the first time it’ll be happening since Clint came back to Manhattan.

“It’s a little embarrassing,” he says in place of “Hello” about fifteen minutes later. “I mean, how nice it is to see your face. It’s been, like, less than a week.”

“I know the feeling,” says Phil. He’s sitting at his desk, looking crisp and official as ever in his suit. Clint learned long ago not to feel underdressed around Phil, but he’s still hoping the heather grey shirt, about one size too small, is good enough for his boyfriend. (Boyfriend. That’s a thing. A hell of a thing, Clint thinks.)

“You look good,” Phil adds, and Clint’s happy to hear it, especially as a very slight blush spreads over Phil’s face. “You were exercising, weren’t you?”

“I showered for you,” says Clint, and Phil smiles.

“I can tell that, too,” Phil says. “You’ve got some water about to drop off the edge of your hair in the front. I’m sorry I’m not there to get it for you.”

Clint reaches up and wipes the water away with the back of his hand. “So am I,” says Clint. “But you’re off doing something super secret and extremely important. At least, that’s what you tell me.”

“Believe me, if I could be with you instead of up here, I would be,” Phil says, and Clint does, but he knows he doesn’t need to say so. “But we’re on the trail of something big. I’m assuming you heard about Mike Peterson?”

Clint lets out a low whistle. “That is big. Good luck with that. And if you ever need me...”

“I know.” Phil pauses. “Is it time for cam sex?”

Clint fakes a dramatic gasp. “Phillip J. Coulson! Who taught you what cam sex is?”

“Believe it or not, Barton, I have some base-level familiarity with online porn,” Phil says dryly. “I’m taking that as a no.”

“I wasn’t really ready for it right at the moment, but... Maybe later?” Clint can’t keep the hopefulness out of his tone, and Phil just shakes his head, smirking.

“Later,” says Phil. “I think I can do that, yes.”

“What’s the J stand for, anyway?” Clint asks. “You’ve never said. And you know my horribly embarrassing middle name.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“It _is_ that bad.”

“Mine’s worse.”

“What is it?” Clint’s pressing, he knows, but Phil’s exasperated look is softened by the smile that won’t go away. Clint so loves that he put it there, and tries not to read too much into his own feelings in this instance.

“Jules,” says Phil. “Phillip Jules Coulson. Awful, right?”

“Nah, I think it has a nice ring to it,” Clint says. “But I can understand why you might not want many people knowing that. I’m sure Stark would be calling you by it for the rest of your second life.”

“I think I could handle that,” says Phil. “My second life’s going pretty well these days.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“I think I’d agree,” Clint says. His phone rings, and he checks the caller ID. Fury. “I get the feeling I should take this, given that it’s our shared boss.”

“Tell Nick I said hi.”

“I’ll be sure to use his first name.” Clint waits a beat. “I ... I miss you. Like, a lot. Like, a pathetic amount.”

“Don’t worry, that’s mutual,” says Phil. “We’ll do this again soon, OK?”

“Definitely.” Clint kisses his pinky and presses it to the camera. Phil rolls his eyes but theatrically reaches forward and pushes his fingers to his lips.

“You’re a decent long-distance kisser.”

“I do what I can.” The phone’s still ringing. “Miss you. Later.”

“Later,” Phil says, and he ends the call and Clint heaves a huge, borderline over-the-top sigh as he answers his cell.


	14. Chapter 14

Clint’s kind of proud of himself.

It’s interesting, he thinks as he lies down on his bed, holding the copy of _The Stand_ Nat gave him earlier. He doesn’t really take pride in his accomplishments as a marksman, hasn’t in a long time; it’s just what he’s good at, it’s a fact of life, it’s nothing to dwell on. But when he does something that requires strength on an emotional level—say, sustaining a relationship with Phil even though they’ve seen each other a grand total of three times since they first started dating—that, he’s proud of. And today, Clint’s proud that he didn’t roll his eyes or grumble over the birthday party Tony threw him. How could he? Steve came back from his Bucky hunt and brought Sam, Sam, who Clint befriended on sight, something he’s done twice in his life (guess who those two are?). Tony crawled out from the rock he’s been hiding under for a while now, Thor returned from whatever business he’d been attending to on Asgard, and Nat and Bruce came to the communal floor. The whole “found family” thing had kind of fallen apart after Tony’s meltdown with the Ten Rings, Thor’s departure for ... whatever it was he was doing, and Steve’s aforementioned hunt. But today, for however many hours, they’d come back together. And that meant more to Clint than he could’ve anticipated.

Now, though, he’s vaguely disappointed as he tries to get involved in the plot of a book he hasn’t picked up in years. He realizes that Phil’s got kind of a full-time gig going these days, but all he’s gotten is a coded text and a bouquet of arrows (which, OK, points for style). He’s not sure what more he was expecting, but it was something, and there’s been nothing. Clint sighs and rearranges himself into a slightly more comfortable position, hoping he’ll be able to concentrate despite his semi-pathetic moping.

There’s a knock on his door then.

“Nat,” he says, “if you’re coming to say there’s leftover cake, I’m not interested. We have at least one human trash compactor hanging around right now that will be happy to accept it.”

“If there’s leftover cake, then I’m going to claim it,” says Phil as he opens the door and steps into Clint’s room. “Sorry I didn’t get here sooner. There’s—well, there’s always something. But May can handle whatever the something is overnight, I’m sure.”

Clint flings the book across the room—sorry, Nat—and stands up. He’s hardly taken a step and Phil’s arms are already around him. Phil kisses him, kisses him long and hard and somewhat urgently, like Clint’s going to run away if Phil gives him the chance, and yeah, that’s not going to happen, not now, not ever.

“Hey, hey,” says Clint as he breaks it off, if only for a few seconds, still close enough to feel Phil’s now-heavy breath on his lips. “You said we had all night.”

“We do,” Phil says. “I just—you should have the happiest birthday possible.”

Clint laughs. Gently, he hopes. “You’re here now. That’s happy enough for me.”

“Cheesy,” says Phil.

“True,” Clint counters, kissing him again. Phil shoves Clint closer to the bed—and Clint loves that he can do that, fucking _loves_ that he’s strong enough to push Clint around a bit, something Clint’s never been opposed to, not in these situations—and Clint, getting a sense of what Phil’s looking for, lies back. Phil nods, almost imperceptibly, and drapes himself over Clint.

“I was going to suggest we talk first,” says Clint. “But this is probably better.”

“Probably?” Phil smirks as he rolls his hips. Clint loves when he does that. Hell, Clint loves when Phil does a lot of things. Maybe he just loves Phil.

That thought causes him to go still for a second. (He’s been trembling. That happens a lot when Phil’s on top of him. Phil seems to like it, so he tries not to control it.) Phil pulls himself upward, balancing on his elbows on either side of Clint.

“Is something wrong?” he asks.

“No, no, nothing, nothing’s wrong, things couldn’t be more right,” says Clint. “It’s just—I thought of something, and it was terrifying, but not entirely surprising, and I had to get used to it for a minute before I, you know, reciprocated in the ... what’s going on here.”

“Well, that really clears things up for me,” Phil says. His tone is teasing, but he still looks genuinely concerned. So Clint crooks his finger slightly, and Phil leans down, and Clint kisses him, because it’s possible Phil will want to Talk About This and he won’t get to kiss him again for at least half an hour, an hour, tops.

“You realize you’re not getting out of this that easy,” says Phil, taking a breath.

“Oh. It’s—” Fine. Clint can do this. He does more terrifying things practically every day. Except, no, he doesn’t, not really. The feelings stuff, it’s always been scarier than bad guys and gunfire. But it’s Phil. Phil gets him, always has. So maybe he’ll get this. Clint swallows hard. “I love you. I mean, I’ve probably loved you since, I don’t know, last fall, thereabouts, I guess, but I didn’t really have a name for it before, like, a minute ago, and now I do and I wasn’t going to say it, but now we both know.”

Phil just shakes his head and gets that look he gets when he’s trying not to laugh.

“Hey!” says Clint. “This isn’t funny.”

“Clint,” Phil says. “What gave you the idea that I didn’t feel the same way?” He runs his thumb along Clint’s jaw. “Of course I love you.”

“Why didn’t you ever say so, then?”

“How do you think you would’ve reacted if I’d said so any sooner?” Phil’s still hovering over him. It’s mildly distracting, but Clint’s not going to let him know that, because then he’ll stop and there’ll be no chance of getting back to what they should, by all rights, be doing instead of talking. He does suppose Phil deserves an answer, though. An honest one, at that.

“I wouldn’t have, like, run away or called things off or something like that, if that’s what you’re thinking,” says Clint. “It’d be more of a—did anyone ever tell you how I reacted when you, when I thought you were dead?”

“No, though I have some idea how you might have,” Phil says. “I’m guessing it looked to all the world like you were doing just fine. You tend to work through things internally.” Phil pauses. “It can look callous, I think, to some people. It never has to me, since I work much the same way, and I know you’re emotional below the surface. It’s just a pretty deep surface to get through.”

“Yeah, that’s exactly how it was,” says Clint. “And I think—I wasn’t ready before, so I’d just kind of brush it off and try to get you in bed, probably? That sounds like a thing I’d do.”

Phil laughs. “Yes. That’s probably what would happen. So isn’t it better that I waited till you said something first?” He leans down and brushes his lips against Clint’s. “Till you felt the same way?”

“I can’t guarantee I didn’t—”

“Till you knew, then.” Phil kisses him again, and there’s a bit of fire to it this time, like he’s done talking, at least for now. He proves that’s the case by adding, “Now, could you shut up for a while? There’s only so much time for me to do all the things I want to do to you.”

“This _is_ a happy birthday, sir.”

“Remind me again why I put up with you.”

“Gladly,” says Clint, and he does.


End file.
